"That might be kind of gnarly," says Junyong Pak, looking with real desire at a 25-yard-long puddle of slush. A smile leaks out. His workout just got better.

We are at peninsular Lynch Park in Beverly, Massachusetts, on a blustery cold winter's day. Pak is standing on the great lawn, sinking in the sloshy mix left over from multiple late-season blizzards. In front of him is the white, half-century-old band shell. Behind are 15-foot-high piles of grimy snow left at the edge of the parking lot by city dump trucks. Storm-tossed Atlantic Ocean is everywhere else.

There is nobody else here except Pak, who has spent much of the afternoon doing a regular workout that only he understands. He has climbed an ocean-exposed granite sea wall, hung from the high branches of a city arborist—nurtured tree, and traversed a slack line upside down using only his hands and feet. It is all part of a torturous, mile-long circuit he has created within a place best known for homecoming picnics and gilded summer weddings. "I love this park," he says, and we both know it's not because of the Rose Garden, the statue of "The Falconer," or the G Movie Nights in July and August. He likes the raw physical features of a place at the eastern edge of the continent, and he likes them best after dark.

Fortunately the drama that's missing by being here in the daytime is made up for by the unexpected feature of the day—that tongue of supercooled water pooling at the snow patch's surface. It won't let him be, and he likes that, too. It's inviting Junyong Pak to do the unthinkable, ushering him into that thrilling moment of self-reckoning that he has come to crave above all others. Can he? Will he?

I'd like to report he deliberates at length—at least for the sake of his beat-up baby-blue running shoes—but no, he quickly strips down to his shorts and a gray tank top, scrunches down to his knees and elbows, and begins army crawling through the slush with the kind of methodical calmness you'd see in a yoga studio. Not even his faithful dog, Georgia, a small mixed breed in a camo T-shirt who has compiled 4,000 miles of road running with Pak, is willing to follow. Her head-cocked expression pleads, "Really?"

It would be easy and convenient to write off the 35-year-old Junyong Pak as nuts, except for one thing. He is one of us. He was a competitive road, cross-country, and track racer until recently—a 2:32 Boston Marathoner, in fact—when something happened and he raced toward the strangeness. He is currently the reigning champion of the World's Toughest Mudder, a 24-hour, ultra-distance obstacle race where competitors log as many laps as they can on an eight-mile course interspersed with British Special Forces—designed obstructing walls, neck-deep water hazards, and something ominously called the Dong Dangler. (Pak completed nine laps last year, for a total of about 72 miles.) He describes his adopted sport as "cross-country on steroids" and once, not too long ago, he easily imagined all the runners he has ever trained with embracing the Dong Dangler, too. But not one—none—has ever wanted to go where he has gone.

It's about 60 seconds all told that he pushes through the slush, the churned-up ice water mere inches from his forward-jutting, prow-like head. He actually does the "run" twice, and afterward he says it's not like he's the only guy who'd do something so, um, beastly. "I know at least a half-dozen," he swears. Besides, he adds, once you "harden yourself up," it's really no colder than, say, waiting at a bus stop on a winter's day. I nod, pretending to agree. His quads, I notice, are an ashy blue and quivering furiously.

Junyong Pak is 5-foot-8, 140 pounds, and when you see him stride, his leg turnover is like a gust-driven pinwheel. Until recently, when he was a Greater Boston Track Club member, he competed in the National Club Cross Country Championships and for six years commuted 45 minutes each Tuesday to train on the track with some of the best runners in the city. He has 12-second-flat 100-meter speed. On our early March day at Lynch Park, he should've been tapering for his sixth consecutive start in Hopkinton and a bid for a sub-2:30 PR at Boston. Instead he was swinging in trees and testing his mammalian reflex by wallowing in ice runoff.

I first became intrigued by Pak after reading in the local paper about his second straight World's Toughest Mudder win at Raceway Park in Englishtown, New Jersey. I'll confess that up until I opened my January 28 copy of The Salem News, I hadn't given much thought to Mudders or Spartans or any of the other boot camp—enamored warrior tribes. Obstacle racing was a trendy hardship I associated with young macho types looking for an ooh-rah moment after a summer of CrossFit. And yet, Pak wasn't that young and didn't look like the Marine wannabe type. He had a friendly face and clean, tattoo-free arms.

When you google Pak, one of the first things you come across is a 2011 training diary for his debut in the World's Toughest Mudder—which he won. It is fascinating, and it's no wonder it is a seminal document in his adopted sport, because what's presented is an extremely personal, detailed, and entertaining road map to pain and suffering in extremis. Even running purists who have no plans to ever compete in an obstacle race can appreciate someone who writes: "The challenge almost spoke to me as if it were my deepest fears spoken in human form and wrapped inside a race. It said, 'Junyong, you can't do this.'"

Pak went on to explain how he did do this—with a maniacal, self-styled build-up through a harsh New England winter that called to mind something Rocky Balboa might've done if he'd been born 30 years later and knew who the hell Spartan Race champion Hobie Call was.

Since Pak worked during the day—he'd later leave his job as a mechanical engineer to train full-time—he worked out at night, cramming two sessions into one, beginning as late as 10 p.m., when he was extra tired and it was invariably "freezing cold and raining or snowing or sleeting." He described these sessions as his favorite because he knew they separated him from everyone else. On return he'd come home to a house with no heat—part of an acclimatizing plan to make him cold-proof. "When you can turn the heat off in the house," he'd reflect, "and be comfortable at, like, 45 degrees—and when everybody else says, 'You're crazy, turn the damn heat on!'—you begin to sense that you have something others don't."

He besotted himself with mileage in the lead-up to the mid-December race, testing himself with an epic 118-mile week that included two marathons (each under three hours), a 20-miler, and a hike up the Franconia Ridge Traverse in the White Mountains with a 25-pound pack. He finished workouts as late as 2 a.m. and refused to give in to either a sensible taper or a gym membership. It took him an hour alone just to set up all of his contraptions in the park. As he attacked Lynch Park with lap upon lap of swims, sand rolls, and punishing hill repeats, he fortified himself with canned peach chunks and halved pears he bought at markdown. He often dragged a rope-leashed BFGoodrich tire behind him to simulate climbing bigger and longer hills.

I devoured his account. My town, Beverly, was his playground and test lab. I forwarded the story to my soccer-playing daughter at college, my son sitting in the other room, and my friend Tim, who lives near the steep Pickett Street hill where Pak, with his 20-pound weight belt, waged after-hours cardiovascular war. He lived less than two miles away from me as the crow flies. I felt like I was a local birder who one morning wakes up and finds an exotic blue-footed booby perched on his forsythia bush. I had a beast in my backyard, an accidental that in almost every way imaginable was beautifully off course. Beverly is not and will never be Boulder. I wanted to understand his journey; I wanted to understand why a noisy hybrid sport sated him in a way competitive running did not. He'd gone rogue—why?

I'm not going to lie; there was something inspiring about a man who completely defies convention and goes his own way. Pak had chucked a terrific job, a significant role in one of Boston's most prestigious running clubs, and years of precise training. In many ways he'd gone off the grid.

He'd also sacrificed the all-important perception that he was as normal as the next person. Runners, neighbors, and even his own family began to think he was weird. He is one of four children of Korean-American immigrant parents living in Haddon Township, New Jersey. "There's nobody else like me in my family," he says flatly, "trust me."

In recent races—some of them televised—he's been asked to traverse a volcano with a live chicken; shimmy 20 feet up a bare, limbless tropical tree trunk in Nicaragua; and run through Vermont cradling a 52-pound rock. Closer to home, his unorthodox training had landed him in a bit of trouble. In January, he'd been stopped from dragging his tire during a weekly fun run called the Danvers 5-K when complaints mounted and a town-council meeting addressed the matter. "The only issue I have," an irked council member said, "is the guy dragging the tire."

Just a few days before our initial meeting, the town got slammed with a fierce nor'easter that roared through the night. I should've been thinking about trees falling in the backyard, water flooding through my crappy field-stone foundation, and the snowblower that hadn't worked since 2009. But all I could really think about was Pak. Was he out there?

At the local coffee hangout in downtown Beverly, Pak enters to absolutely zero notice. He is dressed like one of the college students—5-K cotton T-shirt, The North Face shell—and like them he appears to have nowhere urgent to go. He blends in almost seamlessly, until you lean close—like the young mom with the wide-eyed baby is doing from the table next to us—and hear the gonzo stories he has to tell.

He'd missed the nor'easter, he laments. He's just back from Nicaragua, where he finished a 70-K jungle event in 16 hours, good for second place (which was also last since the rest of the 37-person field abandoned). "It was very dangerous," he says, describing untold sweaty trail miles, poor course markings (some of which were sabotaged), a nervy night swim with bull sharks, and a tall tree to climb with nobody to catch you. Pak was told a female competitor went through a dark emotional face-off with the lethal tree for almost two hours. "When your determination supersedes your talent, things can get scary," he observes.

Pak says that part of the strange allure of events like this is that he's just discovering what his own levels are. He says he can put himself through more discomfort longer than most athletes he's met. He also has an almost absurd ability to delay gratification. One of the Atomic Café's light and flaky raspberry scones could be dangling in front of his eyeballs and he'd see past it. In the field the tease is stopping the nonsense, whatever that might be at a given event—chopping wood; carrying chopped wood; chopping, carrying, and stacking wood—and going home. "It's not like I don't have fantasies about [dropping out]," he insists. "I just don't act on them."

In his first World's Toughest Mudder, he kept going in the sub-freezing, hypothermic conditions by stopping at the aid stations and dumping scalding hot water down his wetsuit. When the stations ran out of water, he used soup. In his second WTM victory last year, he limped home despite an assortment of injuries the last 20 miles that he later determined were crutch-worthy. He was laid up for weeks afterward. "I've been around a lot of Ironman athletes and other endurance elites, and Junyong is certainly just about right up there," says Joe De Sena, who founded and organizes the rival, multiday Spartan Death Race.

Most obstacle races are two-or-so-hour-long sprint-style events, and others emphasize brawn, but the longer ultra races that Pak excels at are the ones De Sena likens to "social experiments." They are tests of grit and willpower and abject suffering. Competitors have been known to recite scripture aloud to cope. This year's Spartan Death Race winner endured 70-plus hours of abuse. De Sena tells me that downhill ski racers are some of the best crossover athletes, perhaps because they're used to standing around for hours in high, cold, wet places with no real way to get warm.

Pak says it's an addictive rush when you're so good at tolerating pain—and you come out the other side. In a pure running race he'd sometimes answer the voice in his head begging him to let go, and though he didn't like himself for it, he'd cross the finish line with nobody the wiser. Like any tactically smart racer, he could finesse his weakness and still have a reasonable outcome. But what if giving in meant, say, your crumpled body at the bottom of a jungle tree...or you lying in a sun-baked field in Vermont with clouds of black flies funneling into your nostrils...or a race director with an attitude standing over you and telling you more than once he knew you couldn't make it? Wouldn't that be neat? Wouldn't that be the sort of adventure trial a gifted endurance runner might want?

"Pak is awesome!" says a PR guy who used to promote the Death Race. What he and everyone likes is that Pak embraces the beast role. He's not merely a runner who's opportunistically slid in because the sport is 90 percent running and he's got embedded in him a couple of decades' worth of high-end training. He struts, he poses, he posts his race reports and training logs online. A recent YouTube video shows him hanging off our local bridge as traffic moves beneath him.

"I guess it's natural to think you're a lot like all the other people in your community," Pak says. "When I got into this, I figured there would be other [GBTC] runners into it, too." We're at the end of our coffee-shop session and Pak's eyes roll upward toward the ceiling. There's a long pause, like he's sorting through a haze of conflicting data. I think he's thinking over his choice—if you would call it that—of becoming something different. "My girlfriend has done a couple of obstacle races," he says finally. "If you were to ask her, she'd probably tell you she doesn't love obstacle racing. She likes it but doesn't love it. She loves running."

Nature or nurture? Are you born to be a beast, no more in control of your fate than a 17-year cicada emergence? Or are you guided by your environment, gently influenced by key events and figures to be badass? Or is it an amalgam of the two, utterly more complex and indecipherable when the first instructive picture is of a youth running for long muddy miles in the woods with his cross-country team—and the next is of a grown man throwing spears at an empty refrigerator box deep into a North Shore Wednesday night?

It's easy enough to trace when the switch came. Pak was seriously training for the 2008 Boston Marathon, his first, which he'd complete in 2:37:04. Much to his delight he found he could string mega-mileage weeks together, one after the other. It was enthralling to know what he could do when he put his mind to it and how different his tolerance for extra work was. His girlfriend, Yvette Tetreault, 25, says the drastic mileage bumps that seemed easy and natural for him weren't for her. "I'd be like, 'No, I don't think I can crank that out. You're a little different than me. We'll talk later.'"

Those big training weeks beginning six and a half years ago didn't exactly come out of a vacuum. He'd been an outstanding cross-country runner all through high school, the number one runner for a south New Jersey championship team. He set the school course record and was an All-South Jersey Group Selection. He had run competitively, and been drawn early to running, despite his parents' objections. They didn't see, as Pak recalls, the "tangible reward" in running to knee-buckling exhaustion. Pak was also the top student in his class, and the sport simply seemed to be a necessary challenge en route to his future career, likely in mechanical engineering. "There have been many times when I wanted to stop blazing this trail of mine and just go with the flow," he wrote in a senior year essay. "But subconsciously I would always think back to my days of running and racing and realize I'm not like everybody else; I'm a runner."

For a time after high school—when he attended Tulane University and afterward as he stayed on to work in New Orleans—he tried to put competitive racing aside, though he continued to run for fitness (and did Tulane's annual homecoming race several years in a row). He wonders now if his decision to get back into it when he moved to Boston, and his happy inclination to overindulge, was his own therapeutic expression of his immigrant parents' work ethic. His dad, 82, still works in a clock repair shop six days a week, eight-plus hours a day, and refuses to go on vacation—something Pak proposed when he first won prize money.

In finishing his prep for his first Boston, Pak was already showing hints of the maniac he was to become. He didn't exactly train according to script. He didn't like to taper. Tom Derderian, his coach at the GBTC, tried to get him to back off, but Pak had other ideas. "My goal for this marathon is to train so hard for it, to run so fast and painfully—while setting a new PR—that I will never want to attempt to set it again," he wrote with characteristic fervor. He strung together 10 consecutive 100-mile-plus weeks, all "while either racing or doing superlong runs."

Pak edged closest to his 2:30 Boston goal in 2010 with a 2:32:59 PR, but marathon racing felt like a mixed blessing. He says he liked the support and being "pretty good at it" but wasn't sure it was truly fulfilling him. The best part was having a big nasty event staring him down the face and scrambling with a demanding job to do something about it.

So to train for the 2010 Athens Classic Marathon, Pak nearly tripled miles week over week, going from 38 to 104 in the same month of the race. His daily runs were between 15 and 19 miles, some starting as late as 10:15 p.m. His crazy ramp-ups—what he called "exclamation points" in his training—didn't seem to harm him, Pak discovered, but instead strengthened him with a "special confidence" that comes from achieving what few dare try. At Athens, which he ran in 2:34:25, his fastest miles were his last three.

"He breaks all the rules, every one of them," says Tetreault, with the understandable disbelief of one who can't. "There's something about his personality that makes him believe he can do these things, and he does."

In 2011, Pak had a disappointing Boston performance but subsequently entered his very first Tough Mudder weeks later in Mount Snow, Vermont. He won the first wave and loved it. "He never did meet a mud puddle he didn't like," says his high school cross-country coach, Tom Priory, who once watched him leave race leaders in a dual meet to jump in a puddle then catch back up and win the race.

In June 2011, Pak tried his first Spartan Death Race, the Vermont ultra event that includes days of continuous running coupled with vexing brain tests and brutish labor tasks like stump digging and stone carrying. "I thought I was tough, but I wasn't tough enough," he says. Pak didn't finish (85 percent don't), but rather than ditch the macho sport and get back to marathon training, he decided to dedicate himself to the next big ultra obstacle event, the 2011 World's Toughest Mudder. The victor's check earned him $10,000.

Pak was hooked, and as his interest in marathons faded, he and Derderian had a falling out of sorts. Pak says Derderian was dismissive of the emerging sport as legitimate. Derderian says Pak tried to recruit GBTC runners to obstacle racing. He understood Pak was good at the strange sport and had an opportunity to be a "big frog in a small pond," but he loathed the idea of obstacle racing being touted as tougher than the marathon.

Pak acknowledges that the sport is not for everyone. As he explains it, most runners like certitude—a race should have a start, a finish, and a fixed course where the variables are as few as possible. Most runners would not enjoy getting lost on a course for no fault of their own and finding their way back. It would be annoying. "They might throw up their hands and say screw this," says Pak. "For some reason I'm not only willing to put up with more, I want to put up with more." Most runners are from Venus. Pak is from Mars.

One of Pak's closest coworkers at the Beverly high-tech firm Symmetricom, Mike Juppe, knew his friend had radically changed course. Increasingly, he'd come in late to work, Juppe says, sometimes not at all. Another coworker once found Pak beneath his cubicle desk, a desperate debris pile of energy-bar wrappers in his wake. Pak was on a sporting bender. "I was definitely burning the candle at both ends," says Pak. "I'd drive the seven minutes home from work and throw on my running clothes and shoes and I'd be out the door. I just never stopped."

In 2012, Pak failed again in his five-year quest for a 2:30 Boston—in sweltering, PR-killing race-day conditions—but he was already moving away from road racing. That month, Pak decided to put his career on hold and embrace the vast unknown of full-time beastdom. He finished second in the June Death Race, and his log entry about it is the longest and most exuberant of the year, enthusiastically noting "59-plus hours of continuous racing on some of the gnarliest, most badass terrain that humans could possibly cover, 64 hours of being awake, and five twisted ankles." Five months later he successfully defended his Toughest Mudder title. This time the prize money was $15,000.

Pak acknowledges that when he left Symmetricom to focus full-time on obstacle racing, the news was not universally welcome. When Pak told his parents, there was something less than appreciation. At Symmetricom he'd helped design a key component for a cutting-edge drone. What's the real-world value, they wondered, in a career spent surviving things you don't have to?

Ryal side, where Pak lives, is a working-class Beverly neighborhood of modest, mostly vinyl-sided homes with weathered-looking grills in the back and black and gold Boston Bruins flags in the front. The houses are right on top of each other, and it's easy enough to look into your neighbor's garage or his backyard and get a sense for things. When Pak bought the property in 2009, he was a marathoner and blue-chip corporate challenger. There was nothing much to see, no curiosities to report. He was a runner. He ran.

Things are quite different now. On the day I visit, Pak shows me a veritable smorgasbord of torturous, non-yard-tending items, including old tires, netting, large fist-thick mooring ropes, and several buckets filled with lethal-looking stakes/spears. His house is a raised ranch with a small front yard and a large deck. Were a neighbor to go inside, asking after a cup of sugar or something, they'd be hard-pressed not to notice the tribal death mask on his kitchen table—awarded last month at the obstacle race in Nicaragua.

A typical Toughest Mudder buildup day for Pak begins with a 20-mile-plus run, followed by an obstacle-specific session at Lynch Park with the trees and walls and ocean. The circuit includes a quarter-mile, 50-degree swim where the only thing between him and a few thousand miles of open Atlantic is a place called Great Misery Island. At the end of the day he returns home for a little more discomfort. It's noticeably cold in an unheated New England house in winter—so cold the refrigerator is superfluous. His is the one house in town where a half-eaten avocado left in the living room would look as good tomorrow as it does today.

He says a key to his beloved, ultra-mileage training blocks—besides what he calls a "zero-distraction environment"—is sleeping until he's rested. And his uncommon amount of nocturnal activity means he's rarely up early. Many of his daylight hours are taken up with the business of being Junyong Pak. He doesn't have an agent and is responsible for all of his own travel. He responds to people who write to him looking for training tips, and he updates his small but devoted group of sponsors.

Here in Beverly, Pak exists in a shadow world. One neighbor who works at the New England Running Company and runs every day says she's heard of Pak but never sees him. "When does he run?" He has run hundreds of times on Pickett Street near my friend's house, but Tim's never seen him. A local city councilman tells me he'd like to acknowledge Pak—he read about him in the newspaper, too—but he has no idea where to find him. "What's he look like?" he asks. Some have suggested he runs so far that he's only fleetingly within the city limits. Others think the rogue things he does are so weird that the average Beverly onlooker figures he didn't see what he just saw. A man dragging a tire on the Kernwood Bridge? Nah.

I wonder if the sheer ordinariness of our town and his anonymity within it offers just what he needs to get better—an almost perfect level of nonsupport. As he put it in a final note to me, you gain the most when "the only cheering section is the one guy up inside your head believing you can."

For sure, as much as his physical training it's the unfathomable expanse between Pak's ears that determines his success. Medical researchers theorize that "fatigue during long periods of exercise isn't muscular in nature, but a perception in the brain." The thought is that extreme endurance athletes possess two things few others have: the brain chemistry so they don't experience pain like everyone else and the ability, because of their training and genetics, to better cope with it.

What will come of the Pak Project is hard to say. He might be a few seconds past peak as a runner, but he can get stronger mentally and physically, he says. "You always think in the moment that you've touched the upper limit of what you can endure," he says. "But I have a little more headroom."

Even if it all goes south, he can always get another engineering job, he says, or even chase marathon times again. In this brave new world he occupies, he is a happy tree with flourishing roots and skyward branches. He's moved beyond mentoring coaches and prescription running plans and workaday routine and is listening to his own inner voice. Last winter he spontaneously jumped into a half-marathon snowshoe race in Vermont having never snowshoed before. "He won the race," says Tetreault. "I haven't found anything he's not good at. When we started swimming, he wasn't good, but after a few times together he got good at that, too. I'd joke, 'Is there one thing you're not good at—please?'" In swimming with bull sharks in Nicaragua, or running when others are safely in bed, Pak has found the bright borderless life he always wanted. He hasn't forsaken running, he's reimagined it. "I've come to identify with the identity I've created," he says. "I identify with being strange, I guess."

The D5K in Danvers, the town next to Beverly, runs weekly no matter what—holidays, blizzards, what have you. For the entirety of its five-and-a-half-year existence the run has never been canceled. Why that would appeal to Pak, who started coming four years ago, is no mystery. "You should come," says Pak. "I think people can tell you some things about me—they know me as well as anyone."

When I arrive at the start—it's at a small nursery owned by founder Adam Prentiss's parents—Pak is busily trying to nail a two-by-four to the fascia board of the second-story deck. He has beveled the board to allow for finger-tip handholds. "This will be much better for pull-ups," he says to a bewildered and portly runner who has no intention to supplement the 5-K with some of the things Pak does afterward, the most ordinary of which are pull-ups off a friend's deck.

After a few words from the bed of his pickup, Prentiss sends everyone off out of the parking lot. Since there are few cars on the road and the snows have melted —and nobody's lugging any tires, as per the town's new directive—the start is relatively smooth.

Pak, however, is squeezing in a post-DIY-project warmup and isn't ready for Adam's quick send-off. His pullover is still half on and dog Georgia, formerly leashed, is now not so. In the obstacle-solving category this is relatively simple—ditch the top, collar the dog—but the speed with which Pak does so is impressive. Within a quarter mile he's in contact with leaders, and not long after that he's in his customary lead position, uncatchable even while Georgia lunges repeatedly at adversaries, imagined and not, from the end of her long leash. Runner-up James Pawlicki is a fine runner, but it must be a certain kind of hell to be just fast enough to see a man and his dog beat you every time they attend.

Wicked Running Club president T.R. Ramsdell, a fellow Ryal Side resident who regularly looks after Pak's dog, says that Pak caused a stir here when he first showed up. "Where did he come from?" was everyone's reaction, said Ramsdell, and "Why doesn't he go find fast runners to play with?" But in short order they realized Pak was looking for something more than a workout. Runners who ran in all conditions were his kind of tribe. Pak is now a D5K mainstay.

As Pak promised, the gang tells oddball stories—of Pak stopping in the middle of his last Boston Marathon to high-five all 10 of them working at the mile 17 aid station. Of Pak running the D5K route with cordwood and tires and a backpack full of God knows what else. They may never really understand why a man who could run a 2:30 Boston doesn't, but then, as Ramsdell says, there are things about them that don't add up, either. "If you only knew him as a runner, it might be puzzling," Tetreault says. "But if you knew him as a person, none of this is surprising."

Pak didn't immediately join the others inside the small cozy cottage for postrun refreshments. He says he's worried about tightness in his leg and an upcoming slate of races that includes sprint-style Spartan obstacle races, the soul-crushing Death Race, and his World's Toughest Mudder defense in November. Unfortunately the rope that crosses the parking lot is rigged incorrectly and is too low to do an aerial traverse. The big tractor tire he usually tosses around is elsewhere. There's a lot of standing around.

On the upside, it's bitterly cold and the night is still young. When Pak finally turns to the warmth and the light of his friends, he's frozen and shaking like a leaf.